


Twisted art in feminine beauty

by GorgeousEmpressDarling



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: F/M, Psycho Pass - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 05:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21333349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GorgeousEmpressDarling/pseuds/GorgeousEmpressDarling
Summary: Rikako Oryo is enjoying creating her art pieces at Oso Academy that she despises and working under the tutelage of Makishima. Until Shinya Kogami comes for her. Now can the kitten outwit the hound.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Twisted art in feminine beauty

_A Rikako Oryo story cause I love the character. _

Every afternoon, the effect repeated itself. The falling sun would cast its bright rays through the paneled window, creating a setting of fire. She had sat in front of the window many an afternoon, bathed in the dying light, etching dark lines and shades onto a pad. The silence was typically calm, tranquil. This was her sanctuary -a place for her own making to explore her hobbies without prying eyes interrupting her work - unless they were specially chosen. Another dark corner of her world where her warped mind had the pleasure to roam freely was her bedroom. Impeccably decorated in rich shades of violet, the brightness of the hue acted as a backdrop to the vivid imaginings of her father’s paintings. The only connection to the brilliant, enthusiastic man she remembered. Coarse fingers are dark with color as they run though her cascade of hair.

She cried out, annoyed, asked him to stop. He only did when his art ceased to matter, and by then she had realized how wonderful she felt from hands exuding warmth due to chemicals and passion. Father was gone now…the world let him go when it had no more use for him. When a vision of a tranquil world had been realized by artificial means, and the burning embers of artistry had been snuffed off as there was no need to think, feel or infuse ordinary objects with intense emotions…the true meaning of art had died like a slow fire, reduced to glowing embers. She wouldn’t go out like her father…which was why she was here..in her secret room..gaining inspiration.

Makishima moved above her, the tightening of his hands on the headboard caused the wood to creak. Under the silvery aura of the moonlight, his eyes glowed like twin moons, calm and tranquil yet overcast with madness that glimmers like twinkling stars. Barely visible on the surface. She recognizes it as it mirrors her own, a warped mirror reflecting the insanity that was cut into her by despair she couldn’t scream out. She has set up this façade of this unquestionably sweet, caring and lovely older sister to the student body. Smiling as a lady, helpful as a sister and courteous and cordial as a loving Queen. Internally, her frustration claws under her skin, shredding the little bits of her soul. He played an equally important part as the genial, easy-going teacher, who exuded charm and caused little hearts to flutter with tiny flickers of his thick eyelashes and thin lips.

He mesmerized the girls as she did with his intelligence, confidence and beauty. Yet she is sure his part as the amiable teacher is as much a front as her act is. “Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red" from Macbeth. No man who could quote Shakespeare so easily, knowing the implications of the timeless words in the present context and view the result with cool detachment and hints of amusement -could be anything but - different. The idea of normal is a damaged and unfair concept in this century. She dug her nails into his back as he applied pressure deep within her with the swift movement of his hips. A low moan released from the pain, a ripple of pleasure across her doll-like features. Under hooded lids, lips parted, she caught the sharp gleam in his eye, ice cold, and piercing like a lance through to her. He was truly a dark seductive manifestation of man’s vices. ‘An intriguing little thing.” Makishima thinks, marveling to himself at how the porcelain doll could conceal her cracks and chips, bruises and infested wounds.

Under him, her hair fans out like a halo, inky black, darkening the pristine sheets. Sliding between his fingers like silky rivulets, her dark tresses tangle his fingers. Eyes hold his own, glittering like sharp silver slates. In appearance, they shine with innocence and modest desire of an inexperienced girl. The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “You are enjoying this, Rikako. Isn’t this type of act be too rough after your previous lovers?” A smiles surface despite the pretty frown twisting her lips. Suddenly, eyes sharpen like razors. Nails carve into his skin as she wraps one leg around his waist, driving him further into her burning core. “Yes, Mr Makishima. You feel very different from the others” Those girls she had in her bed. Those sweet, innocent creatures who couldn’t compare to the beautiful magnetic potency of Makishima.

Skin blushes under exploring contact; mouth emit little sounds that could be construed as the satisfying purr of a cat. Eyelashes fluttered like butterflies and large eyes overflowed with purity turned away in shyness, cheeks tainted red. Men are different in bed. The graze of her fingers causes his muscles to tense and harden, his reactions are equally demanding as calloused fingers imprints on her skin, sometimes leaving bruises. And his eyes, they radiate a force that commands she submit to him, intense and consuming. Rikako always steered the actions in her soft bed above a pliable body, but under Mr. Makishima’s expert ministrations, she is no more but an inexperienced maiden being played according to his whims. His touch glides across its smooth surface, goosebumps rise in their wake.

Her mouth opens a silent plea for his sweet taste and he obliges with a small steady smirk pressed against her lips. He was very different from the thin line of silent rebuke and the cold glare of disapproval that met her explanation of why she allowed herself to be so easily traced just this afternoon. “I trust this activity serves a purpose?” That lilting voice of his with noticeable depths of amusement sends a hot wave of arousal through her. Briefly, she wondered if his traditional sensibility made him think that it was inappropriate.

Makishima exudes an old world charm, and it makes his appearance as a dignified teacher more believable. A crush on her teacher - how mundane! Perhaps it agreed with the respect he had sown in her. Despite the Sybil system’s regulations, falling in love with your teacher is nothing too dangerous. A moan escapes her lips as Makishima planted soft kisses on her neck, gently nipping at the skin. The rapid beating of her heart resounds in her ears and the press of his hard weight over her makes her breathless with excitement. All those other lovers could not ignite her passion the way Makishima could, they were merely toys after all. Easily disassembled, can’t be appreciated for their whole empty bodies, only when they were reconstructed as works of art could they attain some meaning. They were beautiful then. Bits of the father she loved visible in the shiny glow of their dead eyes. Finger toy with the sleek strands of his hair, careful not to pull too hard least she upset him.

“What do you have in store for tomorrow?” The sudden question shatters the silence that was once solely occupied by her moans. His question is accompanied by a swift thrust that ignited a fiery burn that danced across the length of her body. Eyelashes flutter in a mock parody of coyness. “My latest piece is finished. I promise my next work will impress you greatly. A girl came to me today -confessing she carried on a torrid affair with an older man. A friend of her fathers. She slept with him in her mother’s bed.” Musical chimes in her voice. Being with him always made her feel light-headed and buoyant. She couldn’t see his face, but knew he must be pleased for his mouth hungrily latched onto her breast, and the thrusts deepened until she was sure he was completely one with her.

Soft and smooth with the dark sultriness of expensive leather, he raises his head to whisper, “Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her; First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw: This minion stood upon her chastity, Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, And with that painted hope braves your mightiness: And shall she carry this unto her grave?” She opens her eyes, and immediately feels the cold emptiness his lack of presense is in the room. Fingers gently rub her eyes, stomach clenches in unhappiness. And a cold breeze brushes her warm skin still tingling from his kisses. ‘He can’t stay…he is a teacher’ Attempting to comfort herself, rubbing her arms. A dark eyelash drifts to the bed sheet. Eyes focus on it till her vision blurs. Something prickles her eyes. Inside her empty, dusty barren soul, the remnants of truth shift like a living entity. Later that day, as usual, she is seated in front of an easel, a hand in motion and another tapping a mysterious melody on her lap.

Feelings of entrapment turned incessantly inside her, the poor princess trapped in a tower. Makishima’s lips would overturn at the comparison, and rather than compassion, words of silent reproach would slide forth hinting that her cage was of her own doing. She could withstand the cold comfort of her art room for a while as the MWPSB scattered around the school like little ants searching for crumbs. As long as she remained in her art room, she would be fine. Suddenly, a commotion rises up and could be heard from the outside. Briefly, her eyes flickered to the authentic Japanese walls before returning to her painting. Focusing on the thin brush strokes that demanded perfection. The door slide open and a man stepped forward. “Are you? Rikako Oryu.” His voice is sharp and cool like the knife she so often handled.

Who wants to know?” Ah, teenage curtness never goes out of style. He trains his dominator on her. Breath catches in her throat, and she is frozen, forced to stand to the spot by her captive. For a split second, she felt what those victims must have felt..fear, distress and uncontrollable helplessness consuming her being. Seconds ticked by. one. two.

The Dominator tells him, she is not a target for lethal elimination, her psycho pass hasn't entered the range. An artist has nothing but pride in her art. He lowered the dominator, and instead locked her eyes, expression unreadable. She struggled to make it look as if she is putting on a brave face. “Can I help you?” Letting a little tremble infect her voice. She has to keep up appearances. Eyes are an intense grey, a stormy winter that promises bitter ice and sheets of snow. The profile he shows her, hard and forceful told her that he was not someone to be taken lightly. His posture is straight and tense, like he is expecting to meet an attacker at every corner. Suspicion shines like brilliant shards of glass, and she knows if she is not careful she will be cut under it.

“Miss Rikako,” He said formally “What is it about?” She asked politely, moving -with obvious hesitance-to stand in front of him. “Your father,” Was the blunt response. A wide-eyed stare, and in a tone heavy with innocence, “My father has been dead for days.” “Yes. but someone wants to bring his name back.” Shinya said, so very matter of fact, as if he has it all figured out. His expression remained unchanged except for the narrowing of his eyes. “What are talking about?” Gasping, clutching her heart as if it existed for the world to see. He showed her his badge, and instructed her to follow him. He sat her down in an empty classroom while he discussed with his colleagues. Probably boasting over the evidence that was so easily found. Unbidden, Mr Makishima’s words resounded hauntingly in her ear.

He was correct to be cautious and wary, but what to do now…was it too late? The door opened, and the man returned, muscles moving under the suit like the sinewy skin of a tiger. Rikako maintained a neutral expression on her face, she had to be careful. His steel grey eyes seem to pierce right through her, and unfortunately, it ignited a very wrong sort of uneasiness in her body. He is studying her every reaction to the words that he had carefully selected for a reason.

She imagine a scene very similar to Titus, SATURNINUS.

What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?

TITUS. Kill'd her for whom my tears have made me blind.

I am as woeful as Virginius was, And have a thousand times more cause than he

To do this outrage; and it now is done. Needless outrage and righteous reproach was likely his response to what she considered an expression of art. Though extreme, it was necessary to shake the foundation of this complacent world. Folding her hands on her lap, she waits for his stern mouth to move. Eyes never change color from their scrutinizing glower. He activates a hologram that displays her artwork in full bloom, so realistic and riveting. “You recognize these girls.”

A shocked cry erupts from her lips, retrieving horror and fear from the depths of when she knew how to effortless play human, “I know these girls.” Fingers create slight ripple as they meet the imagery, wishing to once again be a connected to the magnificent sculpture. An incredible rush of accomplishment went through her, though she couldn’t revel in her greatest artwork, her priority was restraining the smile from her face. With a somber expression, she said in a heart-broken voice, “It is horrible that such a thing could happen. Who could be so cruel?” Sniffs pathetically behind her hands cupped around her mouth to seal away the crinkling corners of a smile, “To take my father’s work to and pervert it. “It is your father’s work! Do you know who is responsible for this?” The intensity of his fierce gaze intensifies, “I want answers.”

“Yes. I want to help you.” Raising her head, eyes brilliant with innocence and emotional pain. Never in her entire school year did she have to fake so many feelings and mean it so little. “I don’t know how..or who.” Letting her head drop again and folding her hand in a gesture of supplication. Her hair hung like a curtain around her face, making the miserable expression she wore look more aggrieved. ‘Play the part of a desperate, helpless maiden. Show you’re vulnerable and weak.’ If she could convince him, then it would only be a matter of time before she could return to her art, and her playthings.

“Start at the beginning.” Says roughly, his voice cutting and bruising like gravel underfoot. For some reason, her act didn’t reassure, or fails to placate him. Blinking, words are tremulous, heavy with grief, from her trembling lips, “M-my fa-ather didn’t meet many people after his death. He became a very private person.” Swallowing hard to show the burden she was struggling with. “He was taken good care of in a hospital. He had no visitors except for me.”

‘Dead. He was murdered by your Sibyl.’

Desperate to scream instead of the lies. The dubious crease remained on his forehead, and his eyes never lose their callous silver. Her fingers twitched slightly, itching to grab the cool handle of a blade and slice the veins of his thick throat. ‘What right did this whore of Sibyl have to look at her with disdain, when he served a machine built to turn humans into sheep?’ All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. Sonnet 129

“Are you sure?” He prods eyes mere slits of burning light. “We know he is linked to the murders. Since he is dead..the only real connection between his artwork and the statues -is you. His daughter.” Fists hit the table and his face moves too close to hers. Intimidating. Glowering with all the fire of a raging, wrathful Bishamon, the Japanese God of war, justice and law. “The girls were positioned like the figures in your father’s artwork.” Rikako cringed, wincing as his words in a loud accusatory baritone hit her hard. The truth didn’t hurt her, she was indifferent to it. His force, his level of attack, it unhinged her in a way that made her a bit restless. “A few years ago, a teacher from this school was discovered to be responsible for murders. He arranged the bodies in an obscene manner too.

He disappeared, but we think his co-conspirator is still working here.” Rikako’s eyes widened, and horror spreads across her face, “And you think I..” “You are his daughter and go to school with all the victims.” Accusatory. The strong timbre of it is now absent from his speech.

, his harsh words are severe with the thunder shot of a verdict. It provoked something foreign and alien to seep into her blood, heart pounds heavily and her veins quiver. “No,” She screams, jumping up from her seat. “I didn’t do this.” Tears leak from the corner of her eyes, “How could you even suggest I would desecrate my father’s work, by..” Then sentence peters out. Appears that words fail her, and she resorts to shaking with impotent rage that could be construed as fear. All the while she can feel his burning gaze on her, judging and attempting to find cracks in her façade. ‘No, she wouldn’t die like this. Not by Sibyl’s lackey who didn’t have the right to judge her after he took her father.’

“If you are not the one, then who is responsible?” It was a dare. He was putting the onus of innocence on her, and offering her a small window to prove she couldn’t be responsible. Rikako continued with her act, pretending she couldn’t hear him, buried in her grief. Time was needed to think. He was hard to read and unlike silly girls and pathetic teachers, the detective was too astute to be fooled so easily. It radiated from his being, a deadly instinctual appetite, an aura of something closely akin to a predator..of murderers. “Did you share your father’s work with anyone?” Her face is perplexed, while her mind twisted and turned in the small structure of her head, an idea struggling to break free from the mess of thoughts.

‘Who did she tell? Who did she allow her work to be seen- in this dangerous times. I have no answer. I’m in such a terrible state. He could still kill me.’ Hands rest on the table, releasing and tightening into fists. Eyes squeeze shut. Scared, she dared not open her eyes as anxiety trickles onto calm, placid features. “I don’t know.” Says in a small voice with a slight tremor. ‘Yes. I am an innocent girl. I am innocent Rikako, whose father was just an ordinary artist. Flood your mind with such thoughts, or you will never see Makishima again.’ The notion of death- particularly her death is too terrible to contemplate.

Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'

Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly; And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more.” ― Titus Andronicus

“I don’t know.” Stared imploringly into his unyielding depths, pleading with him to at least allow give her the benefit of the doubt. It must be possible to charm her way into his good graces. “I honestly have no idea what is happening..or who could be responsible. Please believe me.” Says in a voice full of broken glass. How much longer could she manage it? A sudden rage turned inside him, commanding him to be a more active interrogator, but he fights it down. He doesn’t want the girl, no; the one she is protecting would be better suited for his justice.

His eyes still retain that annoying scrutinizing stare that crawled over her skin. He might as well be a lecherous pedophile staring at her, trying to unclothe her with his eyes. Straightening up, she gave him a more even calm stare, struggling to maintain control. Seconds ticked by, and they remained in their respective positions. “Wait here.” He says and turns his back to her to walk out of the room. Sitting back on the school’s comfortable wooden chair, chin resting on her interlocked fingers. Facial features lapse to an almost doll-like composure, amethyst eyes stared far away to the great beyond.

Deep in contemplation, she accessed her situation as a fly caught in the web of a spider. No, she wasn’t the black widow any more - she was a captured spider in a jar. The MWPSB had established a connection between her and the killings. But it wasn’t enough, they needed more definite evidence. What if they found her special place? Fingerprints were scattered across the room like confetti. The table she so dutifully tended to create her art, and the basin where she washed her hands of the remnants of the girls. A vein pulsated against her forehead. ‘I will be found out for sure..What do I do?’ Fingers tighten in frustration; a small crack is heard, startling her.

Unwanted, the intrusive voice of Lady Hinata interrupted her train of apprehensive musings, “Ladies do not crack their knuckles. Do you think you can show yourself in public with knobby fingers?” Rikako shut her eyes, and forced herself to take a calming breath. ‘Think clearly. Think smart. If you want to see Makishima again.’ The young girl sets her lips in a thin line, and lets her mind dwell on the answer to the question that weight like a twelve ton brick on her mind. Trying to dissect it, understand and put the pieces back in a way that makes sense.

“Kogami, Are you sure she is involved?” Ginoza asks, rounding on the enforcer after he steps out of the room. Seething in indignant anger at what he conceived to be a blatant show of disrespect. Kogami removes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. Eyes sharp and determined, focused on the answer to the puzzle that gives others the impression only his mind could fit together, and it seems he is only willing to share piece by piece. “She may go to this school with the victims, and her father was the artist of the paintings -that’s no grounds for arresting her!” Ginoza had been going over it countless times in his head. “Her hue was clear, just barely but the Dominator didn’t judge her for action.” This means she was innocent, and Kogami’s behavior- charging into the school, without any sense of propriety and aiming his dominator at the girl undermined his authority. The enforcer should have consulted with him first. “She knows something.” Kogami said stiffly, eyed him with cool complacency with what Ginoza saw as genuine apathy. “How can you be sure?” Face drawn into an intense challenging stare, demanding more substantial proof in the wake of only circumstantial evidence presented. “Yes, the evidence against her is weak.” Agreeing with Ginoza’s assessment of the situation, “But-“ Dismissing it swiftly with a movement of his head, “I have this feeling that she is connected somehow.” His eyes maintain a level stare with his captain, “During interrogation, she was acting excessively. There was something off about her behavior. Too much of a frightened girl who has never been questioned for anything. .” “ I interviewed the nurses like you asked me to.” Kagari spoke up, hoping to diffuse the situation before it worsened, “They said that during her visits, she was polite and calm. Didn’t show many emotions at all.” He rubbed the back of his head, “Kogami, they said she behaved sort of mechanical- like a robot.”

A smirk tinted by mischief heightened the carefree lines of his youth, “Think she is robot? An underage schoolgirl model that the pervert ordered and pretended was his daughter.” The flippant comment is taken in good humor by those who are used to him, except for- “Don’t say such things” Akane scolded, “A young girl’s life is at stake.” Memories of the victims-innocent girls - their bodies twisted and plastered to be used for a murderer’s sick amusement. Full of life in their youth, like she was-enjoying every step of the journey from teenager to a lady.

Laughing with friends, attempting new feats, and struggling to find an identity to take pride in. All to be ripped away by a perverted, twisted freak. Now he would claim one more victim- Rikako Oryu. Following Shinya to the classroom that would be used as an interrogation room, shiny hues caught Akane’s eyes. The school girl bore a remote and shuttered expression, but Akane could sense the panic roll off her in waves. Pity rose within her; Akane fixes Shinya with a hard look, strongly tainted with warning. “Be careful how you treat her! She might be broken for good if you enforce too much pressure.” Akane had heard of it happening before..prisoner’s hue rising under the brutal assault from well-meaning inspectors.

Shinya cocks an eyebrow, not at all surprised that Akane is taking the young girl’s side, “I think she does know something relevant to this case, and if I can just get a perspective on the killer..the interrogation will be - opportune.” Rikako shuts her eyes and discusses her situation with her father. Many times she had turned to him for advice even as he lay in forced slumber at the hospital, blind to her face, deaf to her voice and ignorant of the pain she went through every day in his absence. or Shakespeare. Another man who she felt a special kinship to. His masterful use of trickery, deceit and blood lust in his plays prompted rivulets of pleasure to enlarge her heart, and days later, his harmonious quotes sparks her own creative crescendo. Maybe she should consider writing her own Shakespearean play. A slow grin graced her face; eventually amplifying to a self-satisfied smirk as her thoughts progressed. A tale of a righteous man following an unjust and domineering God with blind faith, and in his enforced ignorance, he engineers the downfall of many a unique mind.

She would weave a sordid tale that would give credence to the fallacy of the Sybil system. Yes, it would be a play worthy of the great tragedies. However, to manipulate the hero would take special cunning. Makishima would be proud - vocal that she deserves to be by his side forever, loving him always. Images of the previous night overtake her senses, she recalls his scent mingling with the sweat of their bodies, his hot breath warming her most sensitive areas, and- .

Skin flushes with pleasure at the thoughts. The sound of the door opening broke her from her reverie, the enforcer had returned. “I will help you.” Murmurs quietly, but he notes the tinge of solid resolve. Shinya meets her eyes, barely registering a degree of new emotion. “What can you tell me?” Rikako is slightly taken aback by his level of rudeness; expects some kind of courteous validation to her helpful offer, not this blatant disrespect that sets her ill at ease. When she spoke her voice was quiet with faint traces of bitterness, “When I entered the school -I wasn’t welcome, and my father’s paintings were seen as something-dangerous. I first displayed them in my homeroom class- as a way to introduce myself to my new classmates.” Her voice stretched thin, hollow and silently seething as a hot glass flute, “I didn’t know any better. I just thought that my classmates were blinded to my father’s genius because of the recent arrests of ‘provocative’ artists. They hated it. Said it was perverse and wrong, completely missing the point of the core beauty in its multi-dimensions.”

Shinya eyes never leave her face, watching every twitch of her skin very carefully, and with a sort of professional detachment that makes her blood stir with dark disquiet. ‘She does admire and love her father.’ The enforcer observed, mentally storing the clues of resentment and anger gleaned from her actions, though she attempts to keep them obscured. Antagonism toward the Sybil system did not point to a psychotic murderer, no, it would have to be something deeper, and more deranged. Had to be ripped from the young girl, as for once the Sybil system was powerless to confirm it.

The Principal confiscated three paintings - I don’t know what he did with them. Maybe stored them somewhere.” Discreetly, Rikako cast a cursory glance at his expression. The sharp and angular planes of his face are like marble; the steely glare of his eyes seemed to have taken on a calculating glint. She went on, “I exercised discretion on who should see his remaining works- the other ones I had in my safekeeping. The art class. My roommates. They all laid their eyes on them, and studied every detail.” Speaks through a sigh of sadness and resignation. Shoulders slump forward, and her eyes are downcast as if she had just emerged from a difficult ordeal. Shinya utters a small grunt and says, “Give me their names.” They have returned to headquarters, and are perusing everything there was to know about their suspects. The scientist lady says, “Mr Himikawa has been a high school principal at boarding school for eight years. There have been no complaints about his behavior and his hue is clear...He has a wife.” She went on and Shinya read all details on the profile, but nothing stood out that would deem the man a psychotic, twisted murderer.

“Any hobbies, any clubs he must have been a part of…” Shinya asks. “Any reason he would start killing students for the purpose of showing off Oryuu’s artwork.” “Maybe the perpetrator did it on a whim, “ Akane interjected, “He happened to see the paintings and thought he could use it to release his sick urges.” Shinya disagreed, “Similarity in details between the statues and the paintings are too close to simply be an impulsive decision. There is a hidden relationship between the mad man’s twisted ideals and the paintings. If we are going to find the killer and the instigator of these violent murders - we need to understand the underlying cause of his motivation.” Forehead scrunched in thought. They had finally allowed her to return to her room, exhaustion weighed down on every muscle, lead accumulating between the crevices -for sure she felt like she would fall down due to the suppressing weight of fatigue.

She made it to the door, feeling relief, she opened the door, and stepped in and threw herself on the bed with her clothes still on. Too tired to change. Her mind was in turmoil after the interrogation. It was only after the insistence of the headmistress and the principal that she was allowed to return to her room, or there were very few doubts in her mind she would have had to spent the night under Sybil’s observation in a mechanical room..where she would be subjected to emotional and physical so-called non-torture. Fingers grip the satin cloth in a bunch, willing her fury to the night clouds so she there was enough room for her to think.

Right now her thoughts resembled hummingbirds, fluttering around and pecking for her attention. Past, present and future. So many contorting emotions welling up inside her that she could barely pin point one before another fluttered into her space. The consistent one that remained at the center, a dark vacant hole that twisted her insides into knots, forcing her to confront the reality - no matter how much she buried herself in paints, pretty girls and artistic renderings-she would always be alone. The yawning emptiness called for the fulfillment, and she dared not turn to her artwork least her hands recreate one of her masterpieces, raising more suspicion she wasn’t capable of handling, She would schedule a meeting with Makishima tomorrow and then, he would help her. He would have to - surely, he wouldn’t abandon his prized pupil and lover.

_So, let me know what you think. I miss Rikako so much. _


End file.
